


Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

by havisham



Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: Early Work, Love Letters, M/M, Post-Coital, Post-War, Reunions, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people would be satisfied with a post-coital smoke. Bill isn't one of those people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Robert Leckie, a many-times made Marine private, is now relatively safe, relatively secure. The war is over, at least for him. And from his place of relative safety, of relative security, he can see the old gang trickle back in, one by one. 

First, he finds Runner, or rather, Runner finds him, calling him Peaches. Leckie has never been more glad for that stupid nickname in his life. Even if he never eats another piece of canned peach again, he will always feel positive feelings for that disgusting, slippery fruit and the way it squeezes, disgustingly, down his throat. 

He’s more somber now, Runner. His walk is more slow -- there’s still a bullet embedded in his left thigh, somewhere. And somehow, between the time Leckie saw him on Peleliu and on the hospital ship, he had managed to break his arm very badly. 

But Runner is _alive_ , they both are, and that’s so much more than either of them expected to be that they grab their new lives with both hands. Never again, each swear, will they ever, ever treat life - their life, the lives of others -- lightly again.

*****

It is not until San Diego that Leckie sees Chuckler again. The laughter in Chuckler’s eyes has died somewhere on that blasted rock, and it’s been replaced by something harder, something graver, but not less kind.

Leckie is at a loss, and feels around his pockets for a cigarette. 

“I think I’m out,” he says to no one in particular. 

Chuckler tosses him a pack of cigarettes, and Leckie catches it easily. “Keep it.” 

Leckie grins. “Thanks.”

Chuckler asks, “You heard about Gibson?” 

“No, what happened to him?”

“Nothing, I don’t know. It’s just that we used to feel sorry for him, you know? Poor old Gibson, he was just a kid, to get so messed up like that. Now I don’t know if he wasn’t the lucky one. Getting out early.” 

Leckie thinks about Gibson, his shaking hands and red-rimmed eyes. Haunted. He shakes his head. 

“He got chewed up and spat out. So did we.” 

“Yeah.” 

Chuckler reaches out for his cigarettes, explaining that he’s changed his mind. His big, strong hands shake a little, now. 

Leckie takes this loss with unexpected grace.

*****

Hoosier, that is to say, Bill, Leckie hasn’t seen in six months. He’s learned, through a complex chain of gossip and word-of-mouth, that Bill survived Pelielu and got shipped stateside. Leckie had no real idea if he’s ever seen Hoosier again, not he should mind, after all.

He writes a few letters Runner and Chuckler, and to where he thinks Hoosier might be, but none of them are answer. Once, he decides to write a letter just to Bill, just to see what he would say.

> _  
> I guess we won’t see each other before I get to New Jersey. But -- Bill -- I hope you know, I’ve always thought that our friendship was pretty special, since we both had to stop being stubborn cusses to have a go at it. I hope you’re getting on well and not arguing with the nurses. They can be vicious when riled up, a lesson I learned to my considerable pain._
> 
> _Bill, I don’t want there to be a distance between us, no estrangement, which is to say, something that stops us from being the kind of friends that we’re meant to be. Friends for the rest of our lives, I mean. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me..._
> 
> __

He doesn’t send it. Instead, he keeps it tucked away somewhere and mentally signs off on Bill “Hoosier” Smith. Leckie’s feelings towards Bill have always been undecided and confused. That’s nothing new. He belongs to the past; Leckie is certain of that at least.

In his very last letter to the boys, he writes that he will be released from the hospital in a week, taking a bus to Washington D.C. and a train north.

*****

He leaves Virginia reluctantly, feeling that he ought have looked around more. On the bus ride to D.C., he tries to figure out what’s different about himself. He feels lighter and -- incredibly-- buoyed by happiness. But that’s not so surprising, after all. The long, long war is over. Everyone is happy, or they ought to be.

He feels much, much older than he is, but that’s to be expected. And it’s not even something he could fairly blame on the war -- he’s always felt this way. It’s just now his body reflects his mind much more accurately. _It’s not too bad_ , he thinks with a smile. 

_I always did have a middle-aged mentality._

*****

It is a miracle, a complete miracle, that he picks Hoosier out from the throngs of people marching through Union Station. But there he was, slouching against a column, in civilian dress, if that dingy khaki-colored suit and ugly plaid tie could be dignified with such a description. Leckie is still in his dress greens and can’t see himself changing any time soon. But then again, Hoosier’s been out of the Marines longer than he has.

Leckie doesn’t want ask why in the world Hoosier is here. But he does ask, “Going my way?” 

“Not hardly,” says Hoosier, “unless you’re going to Philadelphia.” 

“As it happens, that’s exactly where I’m going.” 

And it isn’t too late to sprint down to the ticket counter and change his destination from New York to Philadelphia. The lady behind scowls a little as she does so, but eventually, his uniform does work wonders to her disposition. And then he sprints back to the platform, where he’s left Hoosier (scowling too, as it happens) to look over his bags. 

“You done?” he asks acidly. 

“Yes,” says Leckie, too happy to be much bothered by Hoosier’s tone. He could grow used to it again.

*****

It’s a long and silent train ride to Philadelphia.

Leckie thinks that if Hoosier wanted to ignore him so badly, he could have just stayed at home and ignored him from there. Unless he really wanted come all the way to Washington just for the pleasure of ignoring Leckie, face to face. 

“You got my letters. You never wrote back.” Leckie watches Hoosier’s face, which is as impassive as stone. 

Finally, he says, “Got better things to do than write letters. Specially to you. I _know_ how you feel about writing back.” 

Leckie makes a little noise of protest, but Hoosier wants to have his say. He continues, as deliberately as he can. “You write too much as it is. There’s no point in encouraging you.” 

Absurdly, Leckie wants to pout, but doesn’t, because he’s a grown man, for Pete’s sake. He’s killed people, he couldn’t pout. 

“Hoosier, I...” 

Leckie thinks about how he had seen Hoosier last, how he had looked, like he was going to die. How Leckie’s hands had been dyed red with Hoosier’s blood. Leckie drags his tongue across his lips. 

His mouth is suddenly very dry. 

A frown on Hoosier’s face says than he’s thinking about it too. He mutters, so quietly that Leckie can hardly hear him, “Don’t know what I was apologizing for, then. If anything, you should be the one apologizing to me.” 

“I’ll make it up to you.” Leckie promises impulsively.

Hoosier shrugs, seemingly indifferent, but one of the corners of his mouth lifts. Half an inch.

*****

Booking a fleabag hotel room in Philadelphia turns out to be work of mere minutes. Anyway, they can't afford anything better, or anything other than a single room, with a bathroom down the hall.

The concierge sighs, annoyed at being pulled away from his magazine, and tosses Leckie the key.

In turn, he hands it to Hoosier. “I’m going for some smokes, you want anything?” 

Hoosier looks like he wants to hit him over the head with something heavy, but says nothing. 

Leckie turns to the receptionist. “He gets like that sometimes.” 

Eyes not moving from the page, the concierge says heavily, “I don’t care.”

*****

Leckie comes back from the store with a pack of cigarettes and no hooch, because he’s forgotten it’s Sunday. Hoosier’s nowhere to be seen. Leckie wonders if he’s gotten it wrong again when the door bangs open and Hoosier comes in, his hair wet and in his undershirt and pants. Leckie's seen him with a lot less on, before, but never quite in this context. Something in his heart tilts and shifts. He looks away, but not quick enough to hide the expression on his face.

He lifts his hands up in gesture of defeat. "I couldn’t get any liquor.” 

Hoosier gives him a look that is only mildly venomous. He says, his words a slow, maddening drawl, “Never mind that, how about making things up to me?”

*****

The thing about Hoosier is that he’s very, very good with accounts. He doesn’t look like he is, but there it is. He’s got a system of credits and debits lodged in his head, all itemized and accounted for. He knows what he’s owned. And by his count, Leckie is deeply, deeply in debt.

Leckie closes his eyes and tries to breathe normally. A voice in his ear breathes, “Fuck you, you’re not getting meditative on me.” 

Leckie’s eyes open and widens. He grins. “No, no, no. No mediation. Not tonight.” 

Hoosier sighs. “Words, words, words. Don’t you ever get tired of talking." It’s not a question, or at least, not much of one. 

Leckie’s pulled down, his back against the hard mattress. Hoosier's hands are rough, but deft. 

“No,” Leckie gasps, “never.”

*****

Hoosier’s done this before, whereas Leckie’s only thought of it. Sometimes. Wistfully, and then guiltily, dark-night-of-the soul kind of thoughts. But that’s normal for him, mostly. His soul’s got many dark nights on its account. Anyway, guilt bores Hooiser, since he sees no use for it. He ignores it in Leckie, and eventually Leckie finds it easier to do that too.

As it is, Leckie’s grateful for Hoosier’s experience, because he could be content just to touch Hoosier all night, the caress his ribs, his neck, his scarred thighs. He could be content to kiss Hoosier, there, on his side of his face, where the day’s stubble rasps against his lips. It was like being pleasantly sandpapered to death. 

Except Hoosier twists away and shakes his head _no_ , and tugs at his waistband again. 

And really, there’s nothing really erotic about struggling out of clothes that are far too constricting, far too clammy and close for comfort. Leckie kicks his pants across the room -- well, he feels like he has, although they land only a few feet away. There’s a moment when Leckie is shucking away his socks, and Hoosier pokes him hard on the ribs and -- wait -- how did Hoosier get out of his clothes so fast?

And why in the world was he, Robert Leckie, who was not a fool, no matter what anyone else says, wearing so many complicated clothes? 

Hoosier is so close, and whole, and so _alive_ , and he said in a low voice, “Bob, can’t I just. Well, you haven’t ever. Let me --” 

And Leckie is glad for an excuse to crush his lips against Hoosier’s and say, “Yes, do it.” 

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s agreeing to, but it does seem like the right thing to say. Hoosier takes it that way, anyway, and begins to kiss down Leckie’s body. 

And something in Leckie clenches and winds itself tight because he’s not been this close to another human being for so long -- not since Stella in Melbourne, in fact. And Hoosier is unlike Stella in every way, taller and stronger, and perhaps a hundred pounds heavier, and it’s that weight on Leckie's bones leaves him short of breath and already aching for more. 

Hoosier’s mouth is busy, and it’s not all tender kisses and soft tongue. Occasionally he bites down hard and makes Leckie yelp, wordlessly, and make a grab for him in some way. 

And Hoosier gives a feral grin, because it’s a pleasure, one of many, to take away words away from the mouth of a pretentious ass (like him), and the glare Leckie gives him then seems to say that he knows exactly what’s going through Hoosier’s head. 

“Jesus Christ.” Leckie’s voice breaks as Hoosier’s mouth descends on to his prick.

*****

Now, if Leckie, the writer, had written this scene, he would have dropped a veil of discretion on these proceedings. After all, people’s imaginations always prove more rewarding than reality, generally...

But this is reality and it’s happening now and Leckie’s got no control over it, not in the least, and moreover it is still happening, and there is no veil, no shroud to drape over it for politeness’ sake. 

And he is so, so grateful for it. 

He is grateful and not alone, because Hoosier is there, sucking on a cigarette -- he would stop everything just for a cigarette break, muttering, “I’ve got rights too,” and deliberately blowing smoke into Leckie’s face, smoke that makes his eyes water and his nose itch.

Now. What’s so bad about being alone again?

Leckie says, finally, “Most people would be satisfied with a post-coital smoke. Wouldn’t insist on a coital smoke.”

Hoosier gives him a sly, side-ways kind of look. “Yeah? Well, most people wouldn’t want to reach - what was it? - coitus with you.”

Leckie shakes his head, sadly rueful. “ _That_ was unnecessarily hurtful.”

“S’true.”

“And yet you are here, in my bed.”

Satisfied with this indisputable fact, Leckie leans back -- too far as it happens and cracks his head painfully against the headboard. Hoosier taps the wood with considerable satisfaction. 

“Could be my bed, I’m paying for half of it.” 

Leckie sighs. “Sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”

“Sometimes?” Another scornful puff of smoke. “ _All_ the time.”

*****

In the morning, they separate, each heading in a different direction. They leave each other, as friends.

They don’t say goodbye or shake each other’s hands. 

It’s not forever, not this time.


End file.
